


A Lot Like Life

by dewinter



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Birthday, Bromance to Romance, Dom/sub Undertones, Eric is a Good Boy Confirmed, Getting Together, M/M, What Happens on Training Camp Will Probably Have Repercussions Beyond Training Camp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 08:44:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15991718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dewinter/pseuds/dewinter
Summary: A bet's a bet, until it's not. Dele's not sure he knows where the line is, anymore.





	A Lot Like Life

Eric, because a bet’s a bet, and because he’s clearly getting a kick out of the whole thing, drives Dele right to the door, instead of doing his usual trick of dropping him at the gate and telling him to _walk it, dickhead_. He leaves the engine running and slouches round to the passenger side, still sunk into a ridiculous bow.

“Why, thank you, sir,” Dele says, hopping out, phone still recording.

“My pleasure, sir,” Eric says pompously as he closes the door. “Will you be requiring anything else this evening?”

Dele flips his phone round. “Would you look at that,” he tells the camera. “Stellar service from the boy.”

“At your service, sir,” Eric says to his feet.

“And why’s that, Diet?” Eric straightens up and scowls. Dele wiggles his phone threateningly. “Don’t even think about lying.”

“Because you won.”

“Won what?”

“Arcade Olympics,” Eric says through gritted teeth.

“Which makes me?”

Eric rolls his eyes.

“Oi, less of the attitude!” Dele says, drawing himself up haughtily. The engine’s still running. He’s left the lights on everywhere in the house again – the light spills out across the dark drive, casting weird shadows into the night. Harry’s going to kill him.

“Sorry, sir,” Eric mumbles contritely. The headlights of his car deepen the furrows of his face.

“Which makes me…?” Dele prompts. “Honestly, can’t get the staff these days…”

“Which makes you King Dele.”

“And don’t you forget it.” He gives Eric a whack on the shoulder and ends the video. “You coming in?”

“Nah, mate, I’m knackered. Pick you up tomorrow?”

Dele shrugs. “Sure.” They shake hands – the shortened version, because it’s a bit nippy and they’ve both been out for hours – and Eric climbs back into his car. He sticks his middle finger up at Dele as he drives off, and Dele barks out a laugh despite himself. _Don’t be insubordinate_ he texts as he’s letting himself in the house, frowns for a few seconds at the spelling of _insubordinate,_ which looks decidedly dodgy to him, then figures _fuck it,_ it’s only Eric, and sends it anyway.

In the kitchen he drinks cranberry juice from the carton while rewatching the last video he took. The lighting’s kind of crap and it goes all jerky halfway through, and Eric’s voice is drowned out by his own snuffling giggles. Not his finest work. He pockets his phone without posting it to his story – the internet’s had enough of him for one night, and anyway, he knows he’s just about hit the sweet spot where Eric is enjoying pretending to be pissed off with him – any more might just push him over.

He watches his story over again as he’s brushing his teeth, speckling the mirror with toothpaste spit every time he laughs out loud at Eric’s big dumb sloping shoulders. He had a slush puppy at the arcade, and his spit is still blue. The sugar’s not doing much for the itchy, restless feeling he’s had all evening, either. _There’s bad sugars, and good sugars,_ he hears Hannah saying.

He watches the story again. It’s still funny. He doesn’t know why Eric puts up with his shit half the time. He grumbles, but Dele knows he loves it really. He spent the evening picking out Dele’s bowling ball and carrying it over from the dispenser for him before every round, even though Dele wasn’t filming, and even crouched down to lace Dele’s bowling shoes. Dele rubs his stomach absently. Yeah, definitely too much sugar.

He still feels wound up and aimless, and he figures knocking one out can’t hurt – might help him get off to sleep before midnight for once – so he sticks his hand down his boxers and jerks off matter-of-factly, his other hand braced against the mirror, leaving smeary palmprints everywhere. His housekeeper’s not going to be happy, he thinks, once he’s done and caught his breath. _Eric’d probably clean up for you,_ his brain supplies out of the blue. He snorts, wipes his hand on his boxers, and grabs his phone from the top of the laundry basket on his way to bed.

 _bring me a lucozade tomoro,_ he texts. WhatsApp tells him Eric is typing.

 _orange flava not original,_ Dele follows up before Eric can finish.

Eric stops typing, then starts again. Dele can just imagine him sighing irritably at his phone.

 _your wish is my command sir_ , Eric replies. Bow emoji. Prayer hands emoji. Kiss face emoji. Cry-laugh emoji.           

Dele sends back a kiss face, then grins, chucks his phone on the bedside table, and falls asleep.

*

He’s round at Eric’s a few days later, watching Eric pack for Barcelona. He should probably be doing the same, but the bus doesn’t go until ten the next morning, so he figures he’ll chuck some stuff in a bag ten minutes before he leaves and let the kitman do the rest.

“Not that,” he says from his position lolled on the bed, as Eric pulls another heinous jumper from his wardrobe.

“What’s wrong with it?”

Dele points at the wardrobe. “Put it back.”

Eric shrugs, and swaps it for something even worse.

“Mate, if you think any of us are gonna be seen dead with you in that – well, Coco, maybe…”

“It’ll keep me warm, you bell.”

“We’re going Spain, Diet, not the North Pole.” He pulls out his phone and thumbs idly through Instagram. It kills him that he can’t get away with bantering Kyle online without stirring up a load of shit in the media.

Eric clatters about in the wardrobe for a while longer, and emerges with a pile of barely tolerable gear. He nudges Dele’s legs out of the way and starts folding clothes neurotically into his case. Dele rolls his eyes. He can just imagine Eric’s mum teaching him how to pack a suitcase properly – _and don’t forget to put your shampoo in a little plastic bag in case it leaks, sweetheart._ Dele loves Eric’s mum, but she’s even worse than Sally, sometimes.

“Shift,” Eric says, poking him in the calf with the trimmers he’s about to pack. “Thought you were meant to be manning the microwave, anyway.”

“I’ll do it in a bit,” Dele says. He takes the piss every time he’s in Eric’s bedroom – he’s got this mound of decorative pillows that takes about ten minutes to chuck on the floor last thing at night, and another ten to rearrange artistically every morning – but it’s damn comfy, he has to admit. It’s one of his favourite places to hang out.

“Whatcha reading, you big geek?” he says, grabbing the book on Eric’s bedside table. Dele reckons Eric keeps a book on him just so he can make a big performance of burying his nose in it and ignoring Dele whenever they’re bored and waiting in another liminal airport lounge. Dele keeps up his end of the bargain by asking inane questions about whatever Eric’s reading, or making _wow I didn’t know you could read_ jokes until he gives up after less than a page.

“It’s a book, Bamidele,” Eric says, still rolling socks.

“Looks shit.” Dele chucks it onto the duvet, and pulls his knees up so he can wriggle deeper into Eric’s pile of pillows.

“Get your feet off my bed,” Eric says automatically, just like Dele knew he would.

“Um – last time I checked _I_ was the boss. Now go and microwave that lasagne, there’s a good lad.”

Eric pokes him in the calf again until he takes his feet off the duvet, then ambles downstairs to start their dinner. Dele luxuriates on Eric’s bed for another half minute, makes a mental note to tell Eric his aftershave stinks, and then drags himself upright. He rootles around in Eric’s suitcase, pulls out the two worst shirts, shoves them back in the wardrobe all higgledy-piggledy, and heads down to the kitchen just in time to hear the _ping._

*

Eric’s asleep before they’ve started taxiing onto the runway. He looks smaller, curled up with his chin on his sternum and his arms folded tightly across his chest – and yet he’s still managing to spill into Dele’s space, his legs splayed outwards and his elbows colonising the arm rest.

Danny’s eye appears between the seats in front.

“You comfy there, Del?”

Dele nudges Eric’s arm until he can squeeze his elbow onto the arm rest. “Every damn time,” he grumbles at Danny. If he were pressed any closer to the wall, he’d be out the window.

Danny laughs, and pokes a sesame snap between the seats for Dele to grab. “No one forced you to sit next to him. Me and Sonny’re having a nice conversation, aren’t we?”

Out of sight, Sonny laughs, and wiggles his fingers over the top of the seat.

Eric doesn’t wake when the engines fire for takeoff. He hunkers further down and lets his legs loll even further into Dele’s half of the seat. Dele picks sesame seeds out of his teeth and wonders whether it’s worth trying to disentangle himself and clamber over Eric to go and harass H.

The Wi-Fi’s shit and he’s been stuck on the same level of Badland for weeks. His Switch is in his bag, out of reach in the locker overhead. Jan and Mousa are across the way, talking in low tones about something of no doubt grave importance. He kicks the seat in front a few times, but Sonny’s too busy laughing at Danny to pay attention. He hates short flights. Too short for a proper reclining pod and a decently stacked entertainment system. Long enough for Eric to fall asleep, _again._

He leans forward and peers at Eric. Dead to the world. It’s a big family thing, Dele knows. With five siblings, you learn to sleep through any sort of chaos. He’s got his earbuds in, and Dele reaches across him carefully to unhook the far one, puts it in his own ear. A tinny, pompous voice is saying, … _subsequent defections of several players, though, his task was an impossible one. Sebes, meanwhile, lingered a while in sports administration as the deputy head of the National Physical Education and Sports Committee, before taking on a string of coaching positions, eventually…_

Dele pulls a face, and shoves the bud a shade roughly back into Eric’s ear. No wonder he’s fast asleep. It’s like he _tries_ to be boring, sometimes.

Still an hour till they land in Barcelona. Eric has his mouth slightly open now, and his breathing is deep and regular, which Dele knows because all he’s got to amuse himself is watching the gentle, rhythmic rise and fall of Eric’s chest.

He pokes Eric in the shoulder. He’s doing him a favour, he figures. He won’t sleep at the hotel if he has a kip now, and he’ll be pissed off he’s missed loads of his stupid audiobook.

“Eric Dier.” _Poke_. “Wake up, Eric Dier.”

Eric frowns in his sleep and tucks his chin further into his chest.

“Eric Dier Eric Dier Eric Dier,” Dele says.

“Leave him alone,” Jan says mildly, across the aisle. Dele sticks out his tongue and keeps poking Eric. Eric snuffles and blinks awake.

 _His eyes are blue,_ Dele’s fool of a brain supplies without warning.

“What?” Eric says groggily.

It’s a good question. _Blue,_ Dele thinks, which is hardly an answer.

“Would you rather have a face for a bum or a bum for a face?” he asks in the end, which seems as valid a reason to wake your mate up as any.

Eric rubs his eye. “In your case, decision’s already made. Nice bum-face you’ve got there.”

“Piss off,” Dele says without malice. He yanks on the strings of Eric’s hoodie until it’s pulled tight around Eric’s face and only his screwed-up features are showing.  “Your book sounds shit.”

Eric swings his legs into the aisle and adjusts the stupid inflatable travel pillow he insists on carrying everywhere, even when they’re just going down the road to Stamford Bridge. “Going back to sleep now. Wake me up when we get there.”

“Who said you could go to sleep?” Dele says.

Eric looks back over his shoulder and loosens the hood around his face enough that he can squint at Dele. “Me.”

“You’re not in charge,” Dele says.

“It’s my birthday,” Eric mumbles. It sounds like he’s falling asleep already.

“Not yet it’s not. And you’re still not in charge.”

Eric says something else, but it’s lost, muffled by the hoodie and the engines. Jan frowns at Dele across the aisle.

“Who actually listens to audiobooks?” Dele asks lamely, and Jan shrugs.

*

They’re three doors away from each other. It takes Dele a while to saunter down to Eric’s, because he has to poke his head into Ben’s to give him a bit of hassle for the terrible country music he’s piping from his phone, and then he spends a few minutes crashing Tripps’ FaceTime with his missus. He tells Tripps his kid clearly likes him better than Tripps, gets a cuff round the ear for it, and skips back out into the corridor before he gets a battering.

“Suitcase isn’t going to unpack itself,” he says, leaning against the doorframe of Eric’s hotel room. Eric, sitting on the edge of the bed, looks up from his phone. For a split-second something a bit like fury flashes across his face, and Dele thinks he might finally tell him to _piss off._ Eric doesn’t snap much, off the pitch. Once, when the United rumours reached fever pitch, Dele dared to ask him what he was thinking, and got a sharp, hissed _fuck off_ for his troubles – that’s the worst it’s ever gotten. Dele doesn’t think about that spell much, and he hopes Eric doesn’t either. It made his blood curdle, Eric’s anger – _no,_ Eric’s anger pointed _at him_.

Now, though, Eric grins and hauls himself to his feet. He still looks rumpled from the plane.

“No biscuits with the mini-kettle _again,_ ” he says as they amble back towards Dele’s room.

“Gaffer _definitely_ tells them to get rid of them,” Dele says, knuckling Eric gently in the small of the back.

“How’ve you managed to make a mess already?” Eric says as they cross the threshold. He’s got a point. Somehow he’s managed to stir up the bed just by flopping onto it, and there are at least three pairs of shoes scattered around the suite.

“Not my problem,” Dele says, slumping into the armchair by the telly. He waves a lazy hand at the room, and points at the suitcase open in the corner. “Chop chop, mate.”

Eric bows, and crouches over the suitcase. Dele can _see_ the disapproval at his packing technique rippling in Eric’s shoulders. He wishes he’d had the forethought to separate the socks, really ruffle his feathers.

“Line the shoes up nice, there’s a good lad.”

Eric stacks Dele’s toiletries on the dresser, occasionally throwing him a glare in the mirror. Dele props one leg up on his knee and jiggles his foot, laughing. He points his phone at Eric as though he’s filming.

“That better not be going online.”

Dele snorts. “Don’t want the fans to know what a good boy you are?”

Eric chucks a pair of boxers at Dele, the Incredible Hulk ones Harry bought him for his last birthday.

“Treat my pants with a bit more respect,” he says, wagging a finger. Eric frowns, and turns back to the case. Dele thumbs through his phone. Messages from H – dinner plans, because H never stops thinking about the next time he’s going to eat.

Eric drops something on his chest. “You do know we’re here to train?” It’s the optimistic box of Durex he’d shoved in, between his good black socks and his new Yeezys. Dele pulls a face. He’s twenty-one, and into sex, and still scarred by the mortifying afternoon about five years ago when Sally sat him down and gave him _a good talking to_.  

“You’re not borrowing off me if you pull, then.”

Eric cracks open the wardrobe and starts extracting hangers – those weird headless ones that slot into the bracket, in case he’s tempted to nick a bunch of hangers, eight for a quid in Wilko. “You can’t borrow a condom, mate. It’s kind of a one-time thing. No take backsies.”

“Yeah, like you’d know about it,” Dele shoots back.                               

Eric ignores him, and starts hanging Dele’s shirts in the wardrobe. He pulls each one straight on the hanger before he slots it into place, and fusses with the collars. Dele watches him silently. Eric is a careful person – he takes care with things, no matter how much Dele takes the piss, calls him clumsy, lumbering. He’s not, really – he’s measured, and meticulous, even though the solid, dependable bulk of him sometimes threatens to fill up the whole world, and it makes Dele’s stomach squirm pleasantly, watching him fold his jeans carefully over a hanger and tug the seams until they lie straight.

“Good at that, ain’t you?” he says. It sounds sincere, which is unexpected, but it’s because it is – he means it, and he doesn’t praise Eric often. It doesn’t come easily. The truth never does.

Eric catches his eye in the mirror over the dresser, still crowded with hair products and charger cables, water bottles and balled-up tissues.

“Anything for you,” he says, and he sounds like he means it too. For a second, Dele forgets what the game is. Flip it upside down – _this_ is real life, where Eric waits on him hand and foot, looks after him, _cares_ for him. And everything else outside of that is the game – the complex charade, the extravagant performance. Eric’s still looking at him. Like everything, it’s a challenge. _Look away, I dare you._ Dele’s hand twitches towards his phone. An easy excuse – _need to text H._ Eric’s face is the same as always: ruffled brow, grumbling downward mouth, a rebuke on the tip of his tongue, or else a sudden eye-creasing peal of laughter – Dele can never tell, and it all delights him. _Look away,_ Eric is still daring him. Dele wonders whether he might conjure up the nerve. _Which part of the game is this?_

That’s when Ben sticks his head round the door. “What you two idiots up to?” he asks, as though he’d rather not know the answer. It’s enough to turn the world back the right way up, in one great big gut-churning lurch.

“I’m tidying up after this one,” Eric says, sauntering over to the door. “Can’t even fold his socks right.”

“Aw, need a bit of mothering, do you, Del?” Ben says, and Eric laughs, and Dele feels queasy, because that’s not it. That’s not it at all.

*

The sun’s out, but it’s still cold even in Spain – the air’s brittle and sharp, and they dart as quickly as they can through the drills until only their noses are still icy. Dele sucks on his water bottle as he waits to practise set-pieces. Everything’s blue: blue sky, blue training gear, Eric’s blue eyes. _In ascending order of preference_ , Dele thinks.

Everyone is touching Eric – they sling arms around his shoulders and grab him around the waist, and bury their faces in his neck, and pull at his ears, saying _happy birthday, big man,_ saying, _you had your birthday bumps yet,_ saying, _what did Dele get you then._ Their hands are all over him, tangled in his blue jumper, right down to where he’s pulled the sleeves over his fingertips, like he’s back at primary school and trying to keep warm in the shadow of the portacabins until the bell rings for the end of break.

Dele gets hold of him at last, and pulls him against his side, a hand in his hair.

“Got you,” he says, and he means the nutmeg he just pulled, or the feint that let him break free and put a scorcher past Hugo half an hour ago, or any one of the flashy tricks in his locker - it’s unimportant. Eric needs reminding who’s boss.

“What _did_ you get me for my birthday?” Eric says, his body at once solid and pliable against Dele’s. His arm loops automatically around Dele’s waist, like there’s a groove worn there especially for it.

Dele twists his arm so Eric has to stoop a little. “Who says you deserve anything?”

He can’t see Eric’s face, but he knows he’s grinning, and he knows his eyes are blue.

“Been good, haven’t I?”

“Oh yeah?”

Eric looks at him for a couple of seconds, then wriggles away. Dele watches him lope across the pitch to where Coco’s stretching with his legs windmilling in the air. He scratches at the side of his nose. His limbs feel heavy, all of a sudden. He wants to be _playing._ They’ve spent all morning drilling – going over the same formations and plays again and again. The gaffer’s promised them five-a-side after lunch. Dele can’t wait to get his heart rate up, shake this shivering, sluggish feeling.

“Reckon you can get jetlag going from London to Barcelona?” he asks Serge, who happens to be the closest person to him. Serge laughs, and whacks him over the head with his water bottle, which isn’t much of an answer.

*

Eric’s laughing. He’s clapping like a demented sea lion, watching the waitress weave her way towards him with a plateful of desserts, the sparkler on top sending stars cascading into the air. The lads are stamping their feet, and Eric’s eyes are full and bright, and Dele keeps his phone trained on him as she puts the plate down in front of him.

“Special treat,” he says, nudging Eric with his knee. They’re in a booth in the back of the restaurant, and Paulo and Erik joined them at the last minute, so they’re all packed in tightly, thigh to thigh to thigh, and Dele’s phone is so close to Eric’s face the camera’s refusing to focus properly.

“Special treat,” Eric agrees.

“Don’t eat it all at once,” Dele says, nudging him again. He’s still in charge here, and anyway, the boss won’t want Eric weighed down tomorrow.

Eric beams at him. He was quiet earlier, ducking his head and scowling as they sang to him at lunch. Maybe he was wishing he were with his family, and not here, his muscles like wet cement, the winter air cold and cutting. Dele is filled with a serene warmth. Eric is _here_ , with them, bursting with joy. Twenty four, and still putting up with Dele’s shit. _Must take the piss out of him later,_ Dele thinks to himself, and pockets his phone.

The night whirls on like that. Davinson is making an ungrammatical toast, or they’re all demolishing Eric’s puddings, jostling their forks, or they’re ordering more champagne and arguing about the label, or they’re shouting Jan down when he suggests an early night, or they’re jogging down the pavement after a taxi that’s pulling away into the night. It whirls on and on, and Eric is always smiling, and someone’s always hugging him or ruffling his hair or throwing an arm round his shoulder. Dele lost track of time hours ago.

They end up at another bar, and Dele says “mi amigo, mi amigo, Coco, mate, what was it again, yeah, okay, _cumpleanos_ , yeah?” until the bartender takes pity on him and sends over a row of flaming shots.

“Terrible, mate,” Eric says, and he’s still laughing even as he shakes his head ruefully, even as he accepts the shot, knocks it back. His face is blotchy, even in the gloom of the bar. They’re all at the same genial, dreamy stage of inebriation.

Dele opens his mouth to say something. His lips are still smarting from the shot. He’s not sure what he wants to say. It’s on the tip of his tongue, whatever it is. It feels like it’s been lurking in the back of his throat forever. Everything’s blurry, and soft.

“What?” Eric says impatiently, looking down at himself as though he’s checking for spills. Dele can barely hear him over the music. He shrugs, and grins. It can wait. That’s the thing about Eric. There’ll always be time. That’s a dangerous thought, in football. Dele thinks it anyway. Spurs without Eric – unimaginable.

*

Dele follows Eric into the hotel lift. Eric’s slouched against the mirrored wall, and if Dele squints right he can see dozens of Erics stretching impossibly away into a distance he knows doesn’t exist. Hundreds. Millions, probably. Infinite Erics. Eric’s probably read a book about it, about how the light works, and the tricks it plays. It’s like being at a funfair. The floor lurches the same.

“Fifth floor – go on,” he says, nodding at the control panel. Eric leans forwards and pushes the button for their floor. A million Erics do the same, then settle back against the wall. Legs crossed at the ankle. Staring at Dele, not saying a word. A million pairs of eyes.

“Where did they go?” he asks. Eric shrugs. For a split-second, Dele wishes Sonny were here, pulling faces and making his mirror-selves dances. Or Tripps – Ben – hell, _Hugo._ The walls feel closer.

“You having a nice birthday, mate?” he asks. If Chris could be here – he loves an awkward silence.

Eric nods soberly. “I am. Thank you very much for asking.”

They reach their floor. The corridor’s empty. Dele’s not sure who he’s expecting. The gaffer in his pyjamas, saying _straight to bed now, boys._ Mousa, off for another twenty minutes on the treadmill. Jan, arms folded, watching him disapprovingly, like he knows something Dele doesn’t. God, _Sally,_ tidying up the room service trays absent-mindedly and saying _sweetheart, be careful._ Instead, he’s alone with Eric, and it’s making the back of his neck prickle.

He trails after Eric until they’re outside Eric’s door. Eric fishes his keycard out of his wallet and fiddles with the scanner. Dele peers over his shoulder until Eric turns and glares at him.

“You not got a home to go to?”

Dele should take a step back, but he’s tired and buzzed and it’s easier to whisper when they’re pressed up together like this in the doorway to Eric’s hotel room.

“Forgot my card, I think – forgot what room I was in – forgot –” He’s too tired to put the words together right, or remotely convincingly.

“You’re – oh, _fine,”_ Eric hisses, as the scanner goes green and the door swings inwards.

Then it’s easy, like clockwork, traipsing across the suite in Eric’s wake, into the palatial bathroom, and there’s a voice in his head saying _what the fuck do you think you’re doing_ but it’s easy to ignore it when he’s got Eric two feet away from him. Twenty-four, and swaying slightly, and soft-eyed, and looking – like he might want to kiss Dele, whatever the fuck _that_ looks like.

Dele’s been half-hard since they spewed out of the Uber outside the hotel – he’s man enough to admit that to himself. And now Eric’s looking at him like that. Like _that._ He leans back against the bathroom counter, scuffing his foot against the cabinet. It would be so easy to run.

“D’you really forget your card?” Eric says. He’s whispering, even though they’re alone. They might as well be the last two people alive.

Dele bites his lip. “None of your business,” he hears himself say, even though he could leg it now, skip back out into the corridor where the lights are all on and Eric isn’t looking at him like that. Pretend this is all a joke, just another joke. Just Dele and Eric, just a stupid bet.

Eric shifts his weight from one foot to the other, like he does when Poch is giving him a talking-to. “Okay, none of my – okay.”

Then they’re silent again – not the good silence that often falls between them, when they’re driving, or sat on another long-haul flight together, or side by side on the sofa clutching their consoles, only breaking the silence to swear softly at themselves, the good and cosy silence that feels like it could go on forever and no one would ever have the need to talk ever again. This silence feels fragile, and alien.

“Del – you,” Eric starts. Dele doesn’t – can’t – miss the way his eyes flick down to his crotch. Just like Eric can’t miss what’s pretty fucking obvious. He wonders if Eric feels like someone’s drumming out a tattoo on the inside of his ribcage, too.

Dele takes a deep breath, like he’s about to jump off the side of a boat, and then he hears himself say, “Not going to suck itself, is it,” and it must be the crushing sincerity of the moment that somehow stops him from giggling, because it’s the stupidest thing that’s ever come out of his mouth.

Eric doesn’t laugh either – maybe it would be easier if he did. Break the moment, backpedal it into another joke, another charade _just_ the right side of the line, just suitable for public consumption. He doesn’t laugh. Stalemate. Seconds pass; Dele’s ribs feel tight. His eyes keep flicking away from Eric’s, as though holding his gaze for too long might set something alight.

In his peripheral vision he sees Eric’s fingers flex forwards. He sees his hands jerk uncertainly in the direction of Dele’s crotch. His throat closes. He chances a look down – a ridiculous sight, standing there mostly hard in jeans too tight to hide it, with his best mate far too close, looking stricken, looking like how Dele feels, as though he’s found the edge of the world, and gone over it. No going back. Swallowing up the inches between them.

“Go on, then,” Dele says, and it sounds just as shaky and unsure as he feels, and not at all commanding. Eric’s pupils go wide anyway, and he drops to his knees like someone’s shot him. Dele braces himself on the counter, and tries to remember what his lung capacity was at the start of the season, because it feels like nothing, now; every breath is like he’s drowning.

Eric pauses with his fingers hooked round Dele’s belt. His cheeks are blotchy, and this is where Dele should roll out some savage insult, this is the gap where the joke should be – except he knows if he says anything now, it’ll all shatter. Somehow his heart’s still pumping blood round his dumbstruck body, without him asking it to. His tongue feels too big for his mouth.

 _Okay?_ Eric’s face says, like maybe he can’t trust himself to talk, either – and Dele nods hastily, which might be his one courageous act in this whole shitshow. Everything accelerates. Eric’s fingers are suddenly like spiders scrabbling at the buckle, and then Dele’s jeans are crumpled around his knees; he’s got just enough sense to know that he couldn’t run now even if he wanted to. And Eric’s fingers are inside his boxers then, and he looks faintly terrified, and younger than Dele’s ever known him, but his hands are sure and steady, and _fuck,_ his mouth is on Dele’s cock, and the wild thought occurs to him that this probably isn’t how Eric thought his birthday would end, and then a wilder thought occurs that maybe it _is_ , and Dele thinks, breathlessly, _we’re going to need to talk about this._ He feels very far away from the ground, suddenly.

Eric wraps a hand around the back of his thigh and locks eyes with him – it goes through him like a paper-cut. There’s not much thinking after that, just Dele’s knuckles tight around the counter’s edge and then in Eric’s hair, messily, and a dull, ragged panting that might be either of them, or both, and Dele’s vision blurring so all he can see is the familiar line of Eric’s shoulders, and his bright, bright hair. Dele’s not sure how long it lasts. It’s not like the fine details matter. His brain musters up one last unbidden, stupid thought, _his knees must be killing him,_ before he comes in Eric’s mouth, curling in on himself and making a guttural, choked-off noise he probably won’t care to revisit later.

Eric’s forehead is against his hip and Dele can feel his wet breath against his thigh. _Don’t look up,_ Dele thinks, because God knows what might happen if their eyes meet again. He’s still not sure he’s drawn breath since Eric skewered him with that look. But his treacherous hand is stroking Eric’s hair; gentle, caring motions he barely recognises – though whether he’s soothing Eric, or grounding himself, he couldn’t say.

“Good boy,” Dele hears himself murmur, and Eric presses his face more firmly against Dele’s leg. “ _Good_ boy,” he whispers again, and they’re really fucked now.

Eric looks up, and smiles. His cheeks are still blotchy as he shrugs, looking sheepish and defiant. He fumbles with Dele’s boxers and then his jeans, and Dele’s stomach twitches when Eric finishes fastening his flies. _Now_ Eric’s hands are shaking – after all that.

“You okay, mate?” Dele says, with his hands firmly back on the counter, and nowhere near Eric’s hair, which is too soft and too lustrous for its own good.

Eric clambers to his feet, and lifts the hem of his t-shirt, wipes his mouth with it – and this is where Dele should say _stop being gross,_ but it leaves him speechless.

“Fine,” Eric says, still crowded into Dele’s space. He’d just need to lean forward an inch or two and they’d be kissing. His eyes are still dark, and his tracksuit bottoms are baggy, as usual, but Dele knows instinctively that he’s hard, that sucking him off turned him on. The air in the bathroom seems too thin.

There’s only one way this can go. He takes a breath, and it shudders between them. He looks Eric dead in the eye. “Touch yourself,” he says, almost too quietly, but he knows Eric catches it, because he glances down, and his cheeks darken even more.

“You –”

Dele hooks a finger under his chin and pulls him forward far enough to kiss him, two, three seconds, close-mouthed, strung like wire. _Does he always taste like that,_ Dele thinks dully, before realising, no, he doesn’t.

“I said, touch yourself.” It’s like electricity. It crackles. Dele doesn’t recognise his own voice.

Eric obeys. He doesn’t look away – he keeps looking at him while he shoves his tracksuit bottoms halfway down his thighs. His whole body shudders with the half-frenzied movement of his hand around his cock. Dele steadies him with a hand tight on his bicep. It doesn’t take long. Eric slumps forward and gasps something unintelligible against Dele’s collarbone, and Dele finds himself with his hand in Eric’s hair _again,_ thumbing the nape of his neck and thinking _we’re really, really fucked now,_ and feeling madly grateful that he didn’t see Eric’s face as he came, for the sake of his own sanity. Eric’s hair is so, so bright, and soft against his cheek, and he’s nudging the side of Dele’s face with his nose. It feels magnetic - they’re kissing again, without talking about it. It’s unbearably tender; Dele’s hands are bracketing Eric’s face. _What does he taste like when he doesn’t taste of spunk,_ Dele thinks.

“Fuck,” Dele says half into Eric’s mouth, and starts laughing.

“Fuck,” Eric agrees, and pulls him into a loose hug. Dele knows how his body moves – he could trace the lines of it in his sleep – and how their limbs align, and where the sharp corners are, yet it’s still a revelation. Eric’s laughing too, softly.

“Happy birthday, mate,” Dele says.

“Gotta be past midnight,” Eric says, like they’re just making small talk. “Not my birthday any more.”

Dele’s brain is still stuck on the memory of Eric dropping to his knees, pliant and automatic, and no comeback is forthcoming, so he disentangles himself far enough that he can kiss Eric on the mouth again. He feels a mild, distant irritation that Eric’s probably sucked his ability to mug him off out through his dick.

“Del,” Eric says quietly, with his lips still touching Dele’s.

“Yeah.” He feels like he’s floating. There’s nothing to bother him, nothing pressing urgently in from outside; nothing exists of the world except the two of them and their joined bodies and their shared breath.

“Del, mate, you –” Eric’s hands are on Dele’s hips, his thumbs tracing the skin above the waistband of his jeans. They feel like shooting stars. He starts another thought. “I gotta go to bed. Training – training at seven thirty tomorrow, ‘member?”

Dele pulls his body out of his hazy, sated slouch. He can feel his bones straightening, he can feel his muscles line up with how they used to be around Eric, how they were right up until this afternoon – close but not too close, alive and jumping and straining towards him, but always, always pulling up short. He can feel his heart close off.

“No, no,” Eric says, pulling him back, until their hips slot together again. “I mean – I just mean. D’you want to – I just mean – if you get up early enough, you can go back to yours – we don’t have to go down to breakfast together or anything. D’you want –”

He steps backwards, but his fingers are woven into Dele’s, and he’s pulling him towards the door of the bathroom, across the suite towards the bed, and Dele thinks dumbly _yes, this is what people do sometimes, when they’ve had sex, sleep in the same bed,_ and then he thinks about how he and Eric just had sex, or something like it, and his ribs hitch almost painfully. Eric is kissing him again, his hands all over his back, standing up in the middle of the hotel room, and he doesn’t seem to be freaking out at all, because that’s not in Eric’s nature.

It’s very much in Dele’s, though; he’s thinking _am I the first guy who’s had his cock in his mouth_ and _should I have sucked his dick_ and _we’re really, really going to need to talk about this_ and _what now, what now, what the fuck now._

“What the fuck are we doing?” he says, stepping back so there’s a safe, cold foot of space between them. The bet seems a lifetime ago; Dele can’t even remember what is was over, or who won. He can’t remember what time it is in England. Is it too late to ring Harry? Or Mol? Or Sally?

Eric looks like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He rubs his elbows and then lets his arms hang uselessly at his side.

“Eric, mate, what – ”

“Dele,” Eric says.

“We – what the fuck are we – are you pissed? I think I’m pissed, I dunno, how many did you – look, I know it’s – do you – ”

“ _Dele_ ,” Eric says again, impatiently. The tone’s so familiar – it’s the one Eric uses when Dele’s taking ages doing his hair, or beating him at Mario Kart, or dawdling over fruit salad and vanilla mousse in the canteen – the one halfway between fondness and despair – that Dele feels a little calmer at once.

“Del. It’s –” Eric runs a hand through his hair. He looks tired, in the half-shadow of the bedroom. “Early start tomorrow. Come on. Stop overthinking it. Get some kip.”

It’s all so damn _sensible._ It’s a bit like when Dele first arrived, brazening everything out with his heart in his mouth and his chin tilted stiffly upwards, barely sleeping, missing Milton Keynes so much it hurt, and determined not to show it – and there was Eric, solid and careful and understated, old and young at once, English and not, strange and not at all, like an echo thrown back through time to remind him of a previous life. A bit like gravity: inexorable. Freeing and tethering at the same time.

His eyes are so blue, Dele thinks, even in the dark. He nods slowly. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything further, just moves robotically until he’s stripped down to his pants, until Eric’s done the same, until they’re curled on the mattress, their knees brushing and their faces close together.

“Stop freaking out,” Eric murmurs into the space between them.

Dele snorts. “Don’t tell me what to do. You’re not the boss of me.” Maybe this is another thing he can brazen out. _Fake it til you make it._ It’s been a long day; maybe they can wait until tomorrow to talk about it. Pick over the bones – what’s left, and what’s new, and what was there all along. His eyelids feel heavy.

“Okay,” Eric agrees good-naturedly, and grins wildly. He snakes a hand out from under the covers and pokes Dele in the eyebrow. Dele bats his hand away, and it feels like before, like beating Eric at Uno or nicking his carrot sticks on the coach or making him laugh in interviews. It feels _normal,_ his treacherous brain supplies.

“Good boy,” he whispers, patting Eric’s cheek. Eric’s eyes are already closing, a final flash of blue. “Good boy.”  

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Eric spent the night [looking after Dele](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6JiQCeHPzXE) in January 2018. A few days later, Spurs flew to Barcelona for their [mid-season training camp](https://youtu.be/3wX0bRGkIZU). Eric [turned 24](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bd_MhhCAAjY/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) while they were there. It's still on his [Instagram highlights](https://www.instagram.com/stories/highlights/17891624710180967/). 
> 
> Title from Depeche Mode.


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